


now i know that a breeze can blow me away

by anotherdirtycomputer



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: 2nd person POV, After The Storm, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Trauma, friendship more than anything tbh, i wrote this at 4 am, implied abusive relationship, joyce adopts nathan au, mentions of abuse/abusive relationship, nathan gets help au, nathan prescott deserves better, pov warren graham, that one au that i have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 21:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14341485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdirtycomputer/pseuds/anotherdirtycomputer
Summary: The Storm is over, Sean Prescott and Mark Jefferson are behind bars, and Nathan is on his way to healing - but that doesn't mean he's entirely in the clear.Or: in which Warren Graham is an awkward sweetheart that comes to comfort his new friend.





	now i know that a breeze can blow me away

**Author's Note:**

> howdy, its me again, back with more grahamscott bullshit [dabs] this is a little bit vent-y, but not very obviously... i apologize if nathan's behavior seems out of place or offensive, its simply how i behave when i get really Bad in the head
> 
> this is from the same universe that 'The L Word' is set in, but i suppose in a different universe? whenever i wrote that one, i was kind of leaning into "creepy" warren, and im not super proud of that fic, so i wrote this one with Soft Warren in mind instead
> 
> title is from one of my favorite songs, if i ever feel better by phoenix
> 
> anyways - hope you enjoy! <3

It hasn't been easy since the storm, not for you, and not for anyone else. For Nathan, it's been very hard, and you can tell in the way he eats a quarter of his meal, bathes either too much or too little, and wakes up at 2am, 3am, 4am, 5am,

Today is another one of his harder days.

You came to visit him in Chloe's house, Joyce's house, because he's your friend now. You come to visit him a lot. You came to visit him today in particular because Joyce sent you a message saying it's another one of his harder days and he's your friend now so

You tell yourself you aren't nervous.

Joyce directs you up the stairs and to the guest room and, breathing in and out, you tell yourself you aren't nervous.

He's talking under his breath.

He does this sometimes, you've noticed. In fact, he does this a lot more than anyone else you know. He says things like don't touch me or you're dead you can't hurt me or please it's not my fault. You're never really sure who he's talking to, but there's three guesses, and two are behind bars, and one is in the ground.

"It's broken," he's saying, over and over and over. "What do I- What do I do."

You walk into his bedroom and the words get louder, because suddenly he's speaking to you, facing you, his face too young for his age.

"What do I do if it's broken?"

You look for the broken thing he's talking about. There's nothing in his lap, or on the desk, or on the floor in front of him. The bed is a mess of blankets and pillows and stuffed animals (all gifts from Kate, you think you remember, except for the silly frog you got him what feels like forever ago), but there's nothing broken on it as far as you can see.

"Um," you respond, then cough. "Is it... something I can fix for you? Broken things can be fixed."

He seems frightened by that prospect, upset that there's no solution, and quietly turns away from you. His hands come up to cover his eyes, but he puts them back down immediately, sighing.

You go to sit next to him, and he scoots away when you accidentally sit too close. "It's okay, Nathan. We can fix it."

"We can't," he says, petulant, mad, certain. "It won't ever be fixed. Can't even watch fuckin' TV anymore."

There's no television in the guest room - in Nathan's room. "Uh," you reply, articulate as always.

He growls in frustration, yanks a hand through his mess of curly hair. "The TV! I can't. Or movies. Or, or, or- internet! No Youtube or anything."

You blink, and you're a little confused. Everything seems to be working just fine.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," you say, then cringe when you remember how much he hates apologies. "I mean- Can you tell me what's broken?"

He nods.

You wait, but he doesn't say anything. He looks anxious, and his eyebrows are drawn to the center of his face, his nose scrunched in a way that makes you anxious, too. He gets violent sometimes, on the worst days, but usually just towards himself - you kind of rather he'd just hit you instead.

"Nathan? What's broken, buddy?"

His face relaxes, but he looks sad. He stares at the floor. You hear him say, "Me."

"Oh," you respond, and congratulate yourself for being so eloquent. "Oh." You understand where he's coming from - you get the same things, sometimes, when storms come on TV or when someone makes a joke in a Youtube video, and then suddenly your chest will seize up and it's like you're there again, in the diner, and the walls are closing in around you, the wind is so loud, you aren't going to make it, this is it, it's over, it's-

Nathan's hand is suddenly on your forearm, and he's squeezing it like he thinks that's supposed to comfort you. He won't meet your eyes.

"It's okay," you say, and it is. You're in Nathan's room. It's mostly bare, save for a couple of pictures, a scary movie poster you gave him, his blue bed sheets, the whale calendar on the wall that's still turned to February. "I know what you mean." You put your hand over his where it's uncomfortably grasping your arm. "If you tell me what hurts you, I can find stuff we can watch together? If that would be cool, I mean."

His eyes meet yours, for the first time, and he looks surprised, and unsure. "I- I don't know, Graham."

"Warren," you correct automatically, and it makes the side of his mouth twitch  kind of weirdly, which is basically a laugh when he's like this. He opens his mouth to speak, but then nods, his eyes darting around the room a bit.

It's silent for a few too many seconds, and you feel awkward. "I might," you cough, then, to buy yourself time. "I might know a few things we can watch, but- It'd help if I knew what your triggers were."

His toes curl into the carpet. It's weird that he's not wearing socks, you realize. He's usually wearing socks.

"I don't know," he says, and he sounds so vulnerable that you feel guilty and proud all at once.

"That's okay!" Your voice is a bit too excited, and you tone it down, deflating. "I mean, just that... It's okay to not know. I can try and help you figure it ou-"

"I  _ mean _ that I don't- don't know if I want to tell you."

You blink in surprise. "Oh."

He shrugs.

"Well... That's okay, too. I don't like talking about it, either. Like..." Oh no, you're about to start oversharing. "I don't really like stuff about cancer, because of my mom, but when people bring it up or it's in movies and stuff, I get really quiet and don't say anything."

Nathan looks at you again, and you have to try really hard not to bolt out of the room. His face seems expressionless, but something in his eyes is so fragile you fear you'll break it just by looking into them. He looks at you like you've just given him something precious - which, maybe people just don't trust him a lot with stuff like that. Maybe to him, it is precious.

"I-" He swallows, hard, and you hear the sound of it and watch the way his throat almost convulses with it. "I-" He takes a deep breath. "I-" You're starting to feel kind of awkward.

"It's okay, Nathan. You can tell me. I won't be mad."

Apparently that's what he needed to hear, because he says, "Cameras. Flashing. Death. Water. Drowning. Screams." He's listing things, and keeps listing things, and you realize with a start that these are his triggers. You dig your phone out to type them out in the notes page, already thinking of things you could watch together. "H-Hands." His list stutters, and he suddenly puts his face into his own hands, shaking. "Whenever, whenever a student and t-teacher,"

You stop him there, saying, "I understand." Basically everyone knows about what happened to Nathan, now. You wish no one else did; maybe they'd call him less awful things under their breath. But, also, maybe they'd be less polite to him when he takes their order at the diner. Silver linings, or whatever.

He breathes in deep, shakily, slowly. "Thanks," he rasps.

You nod, because you don't know what to say.

"Vic said," He puts his hands on his legs, and you realize he's wearing sweatpants. They're light grey, and you're strangely pleased to remember you own a similar pair. "Vic said there's some stuff that she's got, she'll bring me, but I," He takes a deep breath again. "I want to be able to watch things. Do you get it?"

"Yeah." You do. "Yeah, I get it."

You sit together in companionable silence, side by side on his bed, feet on the carpet in front of you, both of you staring at the ground. You both get it. Most of the people who were in town for the storm get it. Once, a sound like a tornado siren played during what sounded like a funny video on someone's phone in the diner, and it got terrible and quiet in there. You hadn't been able to stop shaking for a long time.

He leans his head on your shoulder, suddenly, for maybe a couple of seconds, before pulling away again. "Thanks, Warren," he says, and you think he really means it.

You can't help but grin. "No problem, Nathan. Whatever you need from me, I've got it, okay?"

He smiles, but doesn't look at you. "Okay. You- You, too. I mean," He scratches the back of his neck. You're happy to notice that his hands are careful and gentle again, in that sadly hesitant way that he does things. It's better than when he's rough with himself. "I mean, you can talk to me, too. About the storm and- and your mom. If you want to."

"Thanks, Nathan." Maybe you will.

"It's whatever, Graham. Warren."

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are a writer's best friends!


End file.
